


(not all of me will die)

by vonnsguts



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vonnsguts/pseuds/vonnsguts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"from my rotting body, flowers will grow, and i am in them, and that is eternity." (edvard munch)</p>
            </blockquote>





	(not all of me will die)

**Author's Note:**

> I say this is post-series, but there's no attempt at continuity here, so it's not necessary to've seen season 3 to read this, and there are no spoilers.

There is a long tale, and a short tale of what happens in Naples. The long is too arduous to tell; the short, is that they survive, or at least, parts of them do.

After the war, Leonardo does not return to Florence. That city is but a hollow memory of a man he was once in a dream. The man he is now was born in the barren bones of Otranto, with a horse, and a bloody sword, and the smell of smoke in his tangled hair and beard. 

After the war, Riario seeks him out. They rest their horses on a scorched hillside that overlooks the strait. The sea is a fearsome blue, and directly below them, the city is being restored; soldiers haul rubble, pails of water, blocks of granite into and out of the ruined gates. A wind rushes inland off the sea, and on it is the scent of charred meat, and burnt hair. Leonardo's stomach turns. It's spring, and behind them, the mainland is blossoming, beckoning: from verdant green fields and trees; from flower petals cat-tongue pink and milk white; from soil rich and dark as life. Leonardo looks at Riario, the line of his profile. Riario alone is unchanged. He is sharper, now, honed lean as the blade of a knife, and he is more tired, but his eyes are the same. Riario catches Leonardo watching, and holds him in that gaze, which seems to say  _now you see._

Riario has always known the true face of the world. Perhaps that is why Leonardo asks. He turns his back on Otranto. 

"Come with me," he says. And Riario does.

. 

The sheep are Leo's idea. He barters his sword and dagger and a few coin for meager flock of eight. They take the sheep, the horses, some provisions, and the clothes on their backs up through the hills of the Romagna. It has been an entire life time since he had last practiced husbandry, but the rhythms flow back into Leo's brain on an easy tide. Under the clear blue bowl of the sky, they are the only living people. 

.

Otranto does not leave them behind. The shadow of it stalks them through the day, waiting until dark to curdle in their blood. Riario sleeps little, and Leonardo sleeps less. Oftentimes, they sit awake, and watch the fire crack and spit. In the distance, a wolf pack, drawn by the smell of the sheep, turns the night into a chorus of howls, but they never come close. 

One night, Leo wakes up hard, like a drowning man thrashing to breathe. The phantom stench of Otranto cakes his lungs — salt, and cooking blood — and behind his eyelids are the clammy bodies of the dead. His tunic is soaked with fear sweat, and he is so cold, he almost retches. 

The present slowly reassembles itself in fragments: the rough wool-spun blanket scratching his palms; the soft murmuring of the sheep, and the thick scent of their wool; the stars — Ursi Major and Minor, the switched back Cassiopeia — stitched in the sky above him. The terror recedes, but not far, and he is still so cold.

There is warmth beside him, though. The moon is new, but in the light of the dim fire, Leo's eyes can just make out the back of Riario's head, and the line of his shoulder tapering to his hip. Leo reaches out cautiously, and touches the hollow of Riario's lower back. He traces the line of Riario's spine up to his shoulder blades, and down again, and then Leo curls up against the other's body, squirming flush to him. He is clumsy in his hastiness, and jostles Riario awake. Riario tenses from the sudden contact, but Leo is too consumed in his quest for warmth, pushing their legs together, and burrowing his face into the crook of Riario's neck. The chill in him begins to thaw. Riario's breathing is carefully steady, but his heartbeat quivers like a rabbit, near enough to be in Leo's chest. 

This close, Leo can smell Riario: the sharp tang of his sweat, and then, beneath that, something earthy, like rotted leaves, and growing things. Leo's breath hitches. He wants to lick the sweat off Riario's body, clean him like a cat, and keep him. This desire fills him like a wine skin, until he shakes with it. He presses an unsteady kiss to the skin under Riario's earlobe, and then drags his mouth down to the juncture with his shoulder. 

Wire-taut, Riario rolls over to face him. In the dark, his eyes glint like the backs of shiny black beetles, and Leo cannot see his expression. But he can feel Riario's soft exhalations on his lips, and so he surges forward, catching Riario's mouth with his own. Riario stays quiet as ice. And then a hand curls into Leo's hair, and Riario's lips move under his, and he follows them, and Riario makes a noise in his throat like a gasp, or a sigh, and the fingers in Leo's hair tighten. 

The kiss is greedy; they suck hungry and frantic at each other's mouths, quiet but for the wet, sticky sounds of their lips, and their heavy breaths. Then Leo shoves Riario onto his back, and covers him. His hands ruck up Riario's tunic, drag up Riario's abdomen and ribs. He thumbs Riario's nipples, pinches them roughly to make him writhe. Riario's fingers brush Leo's groin as they pick impatiently at the lacings of his trousers, but Leo grabs Riario's wrist and pins it in the dirt. He shifts their bodies, slotting his hips between Riario's thighs, and they both shiver. They rut against each other selfishly, but it is not enough. Riario nips the shell of Leo's ear, ungentle. 

Leo's hands quiver as he shucks off their trousers. Riario's black shining eyes watch him, and Leo kisses him again so he will not have to see them. Then he sucks on two of his fingers, slides them up the back of Riario's thigh, and eases them in. Inside, Riario is so, so hot, and arousal pulses in Leo's groin. He drags his fingers out, pushes them in again, and again, and again, watching Riario's hips jerk, and his eyelids flutter, as his hands knuckle in the grass and he bites his lip. Leo changes the angle, and Riario shudders, chokes on a sob. His desire overtakes him; Leo withdraws his fingers, seizes Riario's hips, and sinks into him. Riario claws Leo's back, while he pistons his hips in short, sharp movements until he is in to the hilt. Then he rests his forehead on Riario's shoulder, and tries to breathe. It is like jumping into a bath of steaming blood. Riario's body clutches him like a fist; he's never been held so close.

"Move," Riario says, or Leo thinks he says. So he does.

They keep their faces hidden. Leo leans on his elbows, digging his fingers into the dirt on either side of Riario's head as he fucks into him with hard, sleek thrusts that punch air from Riario's lung in quick, violent gasps. Riario thrashes underneath Leo's body like a caught bird, grabbing at his ass, and the fabric of his tunic. The rhythm deteriorates as they tremble toward orgasm. Leo slows, slides in deep, and Riario tenses. They pant against each other's necks, coming, and alive. 

.

They never speak of it, not even when it happens again, and again after that, and again, later, and so on. It is what keeps Leo tethered to the here, when the wild claws of the war dig themselves into his mind and chill his marrow. But in the wing of Riario's shoulder blade, and the back of his knee, and the notch of his ribs, Leo finds calm, and something else, something that takes root in his chest, and grows there between them.

The morning after the first time is gray with low, thready fog. It is early, pre-dawn. Riario is already up; he has dowsed the coals, and is tying his bedroll to his saddle. When he sees Leonardo is awake, he approaches, and hands him a hard heel of bread and some cheese wrapped in a cloth. Then he resumes his work. Leonardo watches him, the pale nape of his neck, the dark mouth-shaped bruise under his jaw.

Before, when he was that other man, Leonardo had read a text on funeral rituals in cultures across the world. He recalls burial processions partnered with bountiful feasts, celebrations, and copulations. He catches sight of that bruise again, and wonders whom it is Riario is burying.

.

Some days, their beings are so synchronized that Leo's mind burns hot like a fever at the joy of being understood. But some days, Riario slips through Leo's fingers like water. Even though Leo has fucked him open and vulnerable, there is a side of Riario that is always turned away from him. Sometimes, Riario leaves his body, and withdraws into the hidden, silent places inside himself. Leonardo can only watch him do this. 

For example:

They water the sheep at a thin thread of a river, shallow and gritty with silt. The day is growing hot, and they decide to bathe as well. Leo strips and sits nude in the riverbed. He soaks his shirt, and wrings it out above his head. It's late morning; the water is still quite cool, and goose prickles rise on his skin. A little further down the river, Riario sits on the bank with his bare feet in the water, washing his face. He is still clothed, but his trousers and shirt are dark and saturated where the water has dripped down his arms and seeped up his legs. His damp collarbone is exposed, and it beckons Leo's mouth. Then Riario's hands push his hair from his face, and Leonardo sees the angry scar tissue on his wrists. 

After, Leo lies on the dry, hot grass, and bakes himself. Riario sits beside him, watching the sheep graze on the hillside. 

"We must move them again, soon," he says, after awhile. Leo hums in agreement, but does not rise. He sits up, and touches the sharp pink bend of Riario's elbow, which is still cool and wet. Then his fingers stroke gently, slowly, along the soft underside of Riario's forearm. Riario's head turns, not to meet Leo's eyes, but to watch his fingers, which have now reached the bone of Riario's wrist. Leo draws his thumb lightly across the ridged scar. Riario twitches, a convulsion that begins in the tendons of his arm, and rolls through his whole body. His arm muscles turn to steel under Leonardo's touch, but he does not move. Leo flips Riario's hand over in his own, so it lies palm up in the sun. He watches Riario watching the scar, and sees his face shiver from sorrow to anger to hate, each chasing the next like shadows on grass. Eventually, his features settle into a careful nothing.

"What's this?" Leo asks gently, knowing. Their shoulders are pressed together, and he can feel Riario breathing against his body. Riario's mouth is a tight-knit gash, and now he looks at Leo, eyes bright as needles. His face is expressionless, but assessing. 

"They are proof of my shame," Riario says, so softly, when Leo thinks he will not answer. His voice is empty, but his eyes are still so very bright. 

"Girolamo, no." Leonardo's free hand cups Riario's cheek. "It is not a shame to grieve. While you live, there is hope. There is always—" 

"You misunderstand," Riario interrupts, and something flickers in his gaze. It is intense disappointment, strong enough to suffocate. "My life _is_ my shame."

Leonardo's words dry in his open mouth. Riario stands violently, and stalks off. Leo watches his silhouette disappear behind the rise of the hill, and then he watches the empty space left behind.

. 

He stays awake through the night, staring at the fire until it sears into his eyelids. But exhaustion must pull him under, for when he jerks fully awake, Riario has returned as abrupt as an apparition. He is lying a few feet away, his back to Leonardo, as if he has never left. Leo says nothing, even though he can feel Riario, too, is awake. Relief shakes him, powerful as nausea, like a bone resetting in the body.

.

At first, they are silent, and go days without speaking. But like a melting stream, Leo begins to tell stories of his childhood, leading the sheep through the fields of Vinci. He does not talk of the cave. Riario listens, but offers nothing in return. 

Except once. 

"There was a garden, at the monastery," he says, after hours of quiet. The sun is sinking low on the horizon, but twilight has not yet properly begun. The sky bleeds orange, and red in the West, and in the East, there is still a pale, fading blue. They have settled in a shallow valley skirting the edge of a thin forest. Leo has gathered kindling for a fire, and Riario has dug a small pit in the earth, but now they rest. "For medicinal herbs. The monks tended it most carefully.

"Duties were rotated amongst the youngest acolytes, though I served in the garden all but once. I was to pick snails and such from the plants. It was night; I was killing a slug, when I saw in the candlelight something white in the dirt. It was a tooth. A jaw bone, actually. From a pig.

"On further exploration, I found more ground bones, and when I brushed off the dirt on my robes, my hands were streaked with blood." He pauses. "The monks were mixing bone meal and pig's blood in the soil." 

Silence settles once more among them. Then, as an afterthought:

"The plants grew so fast, the monks could scarce cut them back." 

.

Later, they are again at a stream. This one is wider and deeper, and is plentiful with wild fish. After they bathe and water the sheep, Riario crouches in the muddy reeds, and watches the fish with a calculated stillness and a sharp throwing knife. An hour later, he has caught three, and is descaling them with his blade. Leo sits down next to him. The river fish are slight, and green-bodied, their scales rippling in the sunlight; they have learnt to avoid the bank where Riario is sitting. But a few foolish ones have swum within arms reach. Leo takes a fast, over confident swipe at them, and misses. Riario is watching out the corner of his eye, and his mouth twinges with amusement. 

"The refraction of light on water," he says, in explanation of Leo's failure. "Water bends light, creating a reflection of the fish, which is in actuality just below where it appears to be."

"I know that," Leo says, but he is not looking at the fish anymore. He is looking at Riario, who glances up, and meets his gaze. In the sun, Riario's eyes are a muddy green, like the fish scales, and the river weeds. He has small freckles that Leo hasn't noticed before splashed across the bridge of his nose, and over the bones of his cheeks.

Leo turns back to the river. Most of the fish are still too far away, but one has come close to feed off the bugs on the surface near the bank. Leo bides his time, aims, strikes, and misses. Riario is smiling now.

"Then there is the matter of being quicker than the fish."

.

Riario cooks the fish on a spit, and they eat it with their hands, carefully picking out the tiny bones. That night, they lie huddled together like rabbits. Riario is asleep, his forehead tucked in the crook of Leo's neck. Leo listens to his breath, touches the delicate fold in the shell of his ear, and the line of his jaw bone. He thinks of sunlight on green scales, breaking and refracting on water; of sunlight breaking and refracting in Riario's eyes.


End file.
